“I don’t think anything. My mind is jumping like a jackrabbit on speed.”
“Jeez, Lacey, I don’t know. Everyone’s pinched a perm or two in their time. ’Course, managers don’t snitch anything. Anymore. If they ever did. Besides, the only one I ever knew who got in trouble for stealing, you know, quantities of stuff, was Leo, and that wasn’t even at Stylettos.”
“What did he steal? Where was it? How do you know this?”
“I don’t know. We had a drink one night, or maybe we shut down the bar. He was around twenty, kid stuff. He’s at least thirty now. It was some kind of burglary rap. He told me he got probation and went to beauty school.”
“Maybe he kept it up as a sideline.”
“No way. Leo doesn’t need to steal shampoo. He’s a star. I mean, you should see his car. He has a yellow Corvette.”
“He must make some pretty impressive tips. Stella, you’re the manager and you drive a Mini? He drives Barbie’s dream car.”
Stella looked over at Lacey and just missed hitting a curb. “Damn. I never thought of it that way.”
It was dark and damp when Lacey got home. She didn’t even check for messages on the phone machine. One more thing would put her over the edge. She stripped, dropping her soiled clothes on the floor.
Lacey wondered who would paw through her things if anything happened to her. Would her treasures be thrown out as easily as Angie’s? No one would know how valuable Aunt Mimi’s patterns were, or how many nights she had snuggled up on Aunt Mimi’s old velvet sofa with a handmade quilt.
Would her mother and sister toss her own lovely things in a ragbag, set aside for Goodwill? Had she unknowingly thrown away some treasure of Angie’s, something as simple as a nightgown?
She opened her drawer and fingered her nightgowns and lingerie. They made lovely pools of silken color in her dresser drawers, not to mention what they did for her confidence. No one would know what they meant to her.
Lacey wasn’t the pajama type. Once she turned ten, she insisted on nightgowns, just like Aunt Mimi. Her mother believed there was something salacious about nightgowns, especially on little girls, even if they were flannel. When she first visited Mimi on her own at age fifteen, Lacey discovered that nightgowns and lingerie also came in silk and satin. Now she slipped on her favorite black silk nightgown.
She finally felt strong enough to check her messages: nothing. Brooke’s deposition must have run long. Vic’s business card lay near the phone. He hadn’t given her his home number. Lacey debated whether to let him know about the break-in. Maybe she could trade it for inside information, if he had any. She picked up the phone and dialed.
“Donovan, it’s Lacey Smithsonian.”
So formal? How many Laceys could he know?
“Somebody broke into Angie Woods’ apartment and trashed the place. It doesn’t look like anything valuable was taken. Just some odd personal items. I’m only calling to let you know. Umm. Thanks for dinner. So, what’s up on your end? Call me. Good-bye.”
She checked the door again and relocked it, tugged at the chain to make sure it was secure. It was only ten o’clock on a Saturday night and she was ready for bed.
This is pathetic,
Lacey thought.
He’s probably out on the town with that steak house hostess and I’m living like a nun. . . . At least I’m a nun in a silk nightgown.
Chapter 9
The phone jangled her out of bed at five-thirty, out of a dead sleep. She knocked it off the nightstand and fumbled around before finding it and picking it up. She refused to turn the light on. She yawned into the receiver.
“Did I wake you?” The voice was male, and even in her fog she could tell he was amused.
“Yes! Who is this?”
“It’s Vic.”
Who? Oh yeah.
“It’s five-thirty in the morning!” She crept over to the window, carrying the phone in her hand, and peered out through the venetian blinds. “It’s still dark.”
“Many’s the morning in Sagebrush I’d see you sneaking home this early.”
Lacey fell back on the bed. She groaned into the phone. “I did not sneak. I sauntered. What do you want?”
“You left me a message. I think we should talk. About the ‘odd personal things’ that were taken. A quote, by the way.”
“At this hour? Are you nuts?”
“What’s the matter, Lacey?” His voice was deep and teasing. “Aren’t you alone?”
“Vic, I’m hanging up—”
“I’ll be over in twenty minutes. Get dressed.”
“Don’t you order me around—” She heard him click off. She was determined that he wasn’t going to catch her in her nightgown and looking like a rumpled mess, although possibly a rather inviting mess. She threw on black slacks and a black turtleneck sweater, shoes and socks. There was barely enough time to wash her face and dash some makeup on.
Good thing I’m a wizard with a mascara wand.
A little foundation, blush, a bit of shadow, and pencil eyeliner. Vic’s phone call had supplied her with unusual energy.
The phone rang again. She picked it up. “Now what?” “I’m downstairs. Buzz me up.”
“What, the security expert can’t break in?”
“No pizza delivery at this hour. Buzz me in. Please, Lacey.”
Lacey hit the number on the phone to release the door in the lobby, just so she could throw something at him when he got to her apartment. She had two minutes to drag a comb through her alarmingly out-of-control hair and fashion a quick French twist. She managed to stick the last hairpin in as the knock came on the door.
Taking a deep breath and composing her face, she opened the door. His eyes took her in. She noticed he needed a shave.
“Wow. You’re already dressed. And I thought you’d be one of those women who take hours getting ready.”
“I’m ready to shoot you.”
“For complimenting you? You’re a hard woman, Smithsonian.”
“You have no idea.”
“You’re going to have to do something about that eyebrow, though. It shoots up every time you lay eyes on me.” She uttered a sound deep in her throat. “You know you’re sexy when you growl. Go on and get your coat.”
“Stop giving me orders.” The man was exasperating.
“Lacey, please go get your coat. I want to show you something. Please.”
She informed him that on Sunday mornings she liked to sleep in and this had better be a matter of life and death. He listened politely.
“You wanted to talk about Angie?”
She grabbed a small bag and her black coat. It matched her mood as well as her ensemble. “Where are you taking me?”
He held the door open for her, then started down the hall while she locked the dead bolt.
“We’re going to the Jefferson Memorial. I thought you wanted to see the cherry blossoms at dawn, didn’t you?”
She looked at him, trying to control her eyebrow. “Theoretically, yes.”
“You’ll like this. Trust me.”
Lacey didn’t say another word until they were at the Jeep. She climbed in. Vic pulled onto South Washington Street and headed up the parkway as the sky lightened. Lacey closed her eyes and only opened them after he pulled into the parking lot, stopped the car, got out, and tapped on her window.
Why does he look good with a five o’clock shadow?
she wondered.
I guess it actually is a five o’clock shadow.
He waited for her to climb out. He had a paper bag in his hand. He offered her coffee and a lemon-poppy muffin the size of a small Frisbee.
“Breakfast, Smithsonian.”
She smiled in spite of herself. The hot coffee was welcome in the nippy morning air. She sipped it as they headed to the front of the memorial overlooking the Tidal Basin. He grinned at her like a little boy presenting a frog to a princess.
“Tell me, Vic, don’t you oversized Boy Scouts ever sleep?”
“That’s a personal question, Lacey.”
“Just curious.”
“I was on surveillance.”
“Anything juicy?”
“No, and I couldn’t tell you if there was.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Nothing personal,” he said. “But I was up and . . .”
“And you thought of me. Gee thanks.”
Light was spilling over the water as the sun rose. There was no sign of the renegade beavers who had been attacking the historic pride of Washington, gnawing away at the priceless cherry trees and destroying several of them, much to the chagrin of the Park Service, who had pulled their own overnight surveillance on the water rodents. However, the cherry blossoms were picture-perfect, and right on cue, photographers arrived in their annual search for just the right flowers, to enshrine the exact background, the once-in-a-season moment.
“So, who discovered the burglary at the dead woman’s apartment?”
“Stella and I.”
“You got a knack for walking into these situations, Lacey.” They argued for a few moments over whether this was a true statement. But they ended in a stalemate. He wanted to know more about the “personal items” Lacey mentioned. She told him that only hair ribbons and ornaments, brushes and combs, were gone.
“Anything valuable?” he asked.
“Not that we could tell. Whoever it was left the television and VCR.”
“So the burglar only takes personal items, items that touched her body. Or her hair.”
“It sounds even creepier when you say it like that.”
“If it helps, it sounds creepy to me too.”
They sat down on the cold cement steps beyond the statue of Thomas Jefferson observing the city, golden in the dawn. Lacey went through her story once, then twice on Vic’s insistence, but balked when he began the same questions again. It was a cop routine she’d used herself, but she couldn’t stand having it used on her.
“Cut it out, Vic. I didn’t rob the place. I don’t deserve the third degree.”
“Sorry. Force of habit.” They discussed the possibility that it was just a burglary, unrelated to Angie’s death. They also admitted it was still in the realm of possibility that her death was a suicide, even if the probability had shifted.
“But you think there’s a connection between the two?” Vic asked. “Could be an unrelated theft, someone who read the obits.”
“That’s what the cop said. But why not take the TV? I thought that was burglar bait.”
“And if it’s not a coincidence?”
“Then someone cut off her hair, killed her, and took her personal hair paraphernalia,” Lacey said. “He also took her hair.”
“A trophy? Or maybe the cleanup crew took it. And what about sexual assault?”
“They don’t think so. She was fully dressed. And if she had been assaulted, they couldn’t have ruled it a suicide, could they?”
He finished his muffin. “I’ve heard tales about D.C. police work. They’ve got suicides with two slugs in the back of the head. And they can’t even find a missing intern’s body in Rock Creek Park till the foxes toss the bones out of their burrow.” He snorted. “So, was there an autopsy or just an examination?”
“I don’t know. It was an open-casket funeral.”
“Probably no autopsy. Cause of death must have seemed pretty obvious. My guess is the M.E. might have jumped to a conclusion about the circumstances. Women are mostly murdered by men. And if the killer has the time and the privacy, odds are rape or assault is part of the picture.”
“So, without the assault, the suicide picture fits?”
“Right. And if it all fits, why look any deeper?” Vic sighed. “Some cops figure if it ain’t got a bullet in it, it ain’t their problem. They got plenty of bodies with bullets in ’em.”
“Now it’s your turn. Give
me
some information,” Lacey said. “You must have heard something, being Stylettos’ new watchdog.”
“I’ve been instructed to stay away from it, remember? You stumbled onto the crime scene.”
Jerk,
Lacey thought. “I forgot. How’s shampoo patrol?”
“Glamorous as hell. But it’s a cash cow.” She stared him down. “Okay, I’ll tell you what I think. If Angie Woods was murdered, your chances of finding the killer could dance on the head of a pin.”
“You’re consistent, Chief. The first thing you ever told me in Sagebrush is if a murderer isn’t caught in the first forty-eight hours, chances drop to almost nothing.”
“Something like that. And once they call it a suicide, you don’t even have a crime scene or a police investigation. In this case, seems you’ve got bad police work, followed by no police work, followed by a crime-scene cleanup crew. What a mess. Any evidence is probably long gone. You’ve got no crime-scene forensics, no suspect list, no interviews, no alibi checks, no neighborhood canvass, no blood work, no DNA, no fingerprints. There’s no way for you to do all that now. And if the death is connected to the burglary, you helped clean up the secondary crime scene yourself.”
“What else could I do?” She felt awful.
“Nothing. Don’t beat yourself up. There probably wasn’t a lot there to begin with. You’d have to tackle the angle the cops hate the most, that they try not to mess with, ’cause it’s usually the hardest and the least productive: motive. And what if there’s no motive, or none that makes any sense, like some druggie pervert off the street who just liked her pretty hair?”
“You really know how to cheer me up, don’t you?”
“It’s a heck of a lot of work, Lacey. Some cops get obsessed with a case, and it sticks with ’em for years. Are you going to do that?”
“Where do I start?”
Vic sighed again. “With the victim’s basics. What did she do that last day? Who did she know? Did she have any enemies? Is there a connection to the salon?”
“I don’t know. It seems to me that Stylettos has a thief. So, did Angie, a Stylettos stylist, know too much about the thief?”
“The connection is pretty far-fetched, Lacey.”
“Then why did you call me? Tell me about your thief. What do you have?” It was his turn to stare her down. “Come on. I am not going to ruin your purloined shampoo investigation, Vic.”
“I don’t have much. Honestly. The thief is no amateur, but not a master criminal either. She’ll make a mistake sooner or later.”